


Bittersweet Death

by ofthenoctis



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gay, M/M, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 15:57:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11901123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofthenoctis/pseuds/ofthenoctis
Summary: Jacob Lavender was a florist, whose life had been about as normal as it could get--until he dies and somehow comes back. He finds himself on the doorstep of none other than Clint Barton.





	1. R.I.P TO MY YOUTH

If there was any one thing Jacob Lavender was sure about, it was that he knew flowers better than anyone else on the planet. That was why he ran Lavender's Flowers, his father's old flower shop. Well, his grandfather started it, but when he passed, his father was given the shop. And now that James Lavender was dead, it was passed down to Jacob.

Jake was fine on his own. He loved the shop, and the scent of flowers it carried. All the customers were kind and patient with him. Lavender's paid the bills, and quite well. He had never had to struggle with money. And that was just fine with him.

Currently, Jake was finishing up with a customer. As soon as she left, he let out a breath, leaning back against the counter. Maybe he should close up early tonight, he thought. He deserved it. Today had been a long day, probably one of the longest days in a while. He deserved a vacation.

"Hey, you!" It was Marjorie, one of Jake's oldest friends. She strode into the shop, grinning at him. "Let's go to the bar down the block. It just opened. I bet you we could find some hot guys to go home with." She leaned against the counter, her brown eyes twinkling.

"I dunno, Marj," Jake replied with a smile, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. "It's getting late. I think I'm gonna close up and then go home." 

"Oh, come on! Don't you wanna get drunk just once in your life? You're always pushing it off!" the brunette pouted at him. "Just once. You never know, you could end up with a really hot guy. I know your biggest dream is to make out with Henry Cavill. You could find Henry Cavill's doppelganger!"

This made him laugh. "I don't think so. Besides, getting drunk means getting hungover the next morning. I have work tomorrow. Go home, Marj. Get some sleep."

"You're no fun." Marjorie pouted, turning and leaving the shop. Jake shook his head. Sometimes, Marjorie was just too open and pushy for him. Then again, he was pretty boring and cautious. Whatever. 

He walked the floor, checking for any garbage. He scooped up a total of six petals, four candy wrappers, and a stuffed bear. He set the bear on the counter, making a mental note of it to remember to find its owner, and threw away the petals and wrappers. He then turned, hanging up his apron, and moved to leave.

Weirdly, his stomach began heaving as he walked, and he began coughing. That was out of the ordinary. He never got sick. Ever. Clutching at his chest as he tried to get out his keys with one hand, the coughs got worse and worse. He shook it off, fumbling to find the right key, when he suddenly felt too weak to stand. His knees gave way and he hit the ground, heaving.

It was then that blood came out of his mouth alongside the coughs. This alerted Jake and he tried to grab his phone, but every muscle in his body felt heavy, too heavy for him. He couldn't move. He just lay there, coughing up blood, unable to do anything.

Was he going to die here? Was it too late for him? His thoughts raced with panic and terror, and he desperately tried to move, to do anything. But it was too late. He was going to die.

"Jake! Jake, oh my god!" It was Marjorie's voice, but she seemed far away, not right next to him. He couldn't do anything, just vaguely feel her flip him onto his back. He could vaguely see her panicked eyes, but he couldn't say anything. He couldn't speak. His heart then stopped, and his eyes began to close to the sound of her panicked screaming of terror.

Jacob Lavender was dead.


	2. SWEATER WEATHER

If there was any one thing Clinton Barton was sure about, it was that he gave absolutely no fucks. He'd dealt with everything, from Norse gods from mythology hell-bent on taking over the world to artificially intelligent robots focused on ending it. There was nothing that surprised him anymore. Or so he thought.

It was a rainy morning in Manhattan, and Clint was just getting out of bed. He rubbed his face, groaning. It was clear he wasn't in the mood for getting up just yet, but he had work soon. He got dressed and shuffled out into the kitchen. Lucky, his dog, hopped up immediately and trotted over to his owner, panting happily. He smiled tiredly, petting his head. "Hey, buddy. Hungry?"

Without waiting for an answer, Clint walked over and filled up Lucky's bowl with dog food. He then crossed the kitchen again to make himself some coffee. He leaned against the counter, sipping from his mug, listening to the sound of Lucky eating. Ah, the sweet sound of being alone. No aliens or robots to fight. It was quite nice. He wouldn't change it for the world.

A sudden noise was heard at the front door. It was sort of a thudding sound like something hit the ground right in front of the door. Clint wouldn't have heard it if it weren't for his hearing aids, and Lucky's ears perking up. He immediately set down his mug and silently jogged for his bow and quiver, grabbing three arrows from the quiver and nocking them all against his bow. "Great," he muttered, "more drama. Just what I needed."

Slowly, he crept across the room, bow in front of him, toward the front door. Lucky followed behind him loyally, tail wagging as his eye sparkled with interest. When saving Clint's life when they met, Lucky had lost his left eye. It had been a brave thing to do, and Clint was proud of his dog for it. Clint reached out for the doorknob, peering through the peephole. No one was there. Strange. He looked down at Lucky, who wagged his tail. He sighed and wrapped a hand around the doorknob, ever so hesitantly pulling it open.

What lay there was definitely a sight for sore eyes.

The body of a man in about his twenties lay on Clint's doorstep. He was pale, and blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. He had glasses that were askew on his face, and a button-up shirt that was ruffled. He seemed to be dead, or perhaps sleeping. Clint looked around with a frown. "Who the hell thought it was a good idea to leave a body on my doorstep?" he muttered, then added in a shout, "WHAT DID I DO THIS TIME?" No response. Obviously.

With a heavy sigh, Clint picked the man up and dragged him inside. He then searched his body for credentials, finding a wallet with an ID inside. "Jacob Lavender, huh? What are you, a--" He cut himself off as he saw a card for Lavender's Flowers with Jacob's name on it. "You are. Literally. Jacob Lavender is a florist. Who knew?" He chuckled to himself, shaking his head as he tossed the wallet aside, examining the man again. He had bright blue eyes and dark hair swept back with gel. Biting his bottom lip, Clint shook his head and checked his pulse. Nothing.

"Welp, Lucky, looks like we've got a dead guy in our house and it's not even my fault. Or is it?" He rose an eyebrow, looking back down at Jacob. He didn't look to have any outer wounds, so it couldn't have been Clint's fault. He only killed with arrows and the occasional gun or knife. And there was that one time with a sword . . . 

The blond man sighed and shook his head. "I need my coffee. Lucky, stay." He turned and walked back to the kitchen, picking up his mug of coffee and taking a sip. He made a face. Lukewarm coffee. Gross! He'd have to deal with it for now, unfortunately. Now, what was he to do with this Jacob Lavender guy? He could just dump him in the sea and forget about him. That seemed easy. But then his DNA would be all over the body and he would be pinned as the killer . . . he could turn him over to S.H.I.E.L.D., but that would be a lot of paperwork and drama to undergo. And did he really want that?

Clint was snapped out of his reverie by a figure standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He scooped up his bow again to see that it was Jacob. Jacob Lavender, alive and well, standing in his kitchen. 

Of course, Clint had the most appropriate response to this. He spat out his mouthful of coffee directly in Jacob's face.

Jacob flinched, his pale eyes shutting at the liquid that hit his glasses. "Thanks," he mumbled. "I really needed that."

"You--You're alive," Clint sputtered out of shock, his eyes wide. "You were dead! How?"

Jacob shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe it's the fact that you dragged me into your apartment and took out my wallet." He wiped the coffee from his glasses on his shirt, before putting them back on and crossing his arms.

"Okay, that was not my fault. Your body was on my doorstep."

"So you dragged me inside?"

"Explain to me how you're alive!"

"I don't know." Jacob leaned against the doorway, watching the other man with interest. "Why are you dressed like that? Did you just roll out of bed?"

"Actually, I did." He made a face at him. Jesus, he was so rude. Not even a 'thank you' for letting him come back to life in his house and not some street or even the ocean. Couldn't he just say thank you and leave? It wasn't that hard. 

Jacob rolled his eyes, sighing. "Which way to 9th Avenue? I need out of here. I can't stand it with you." He turned to leave, heading for the door, when Lucky hopped up and bounded to sit in front of the door. He kicked at the dog, but Lucky didn't move. "Out of the way, stupid dog!"

Clint gave a sly grin. "You can't leave looking like that, buddy. You've got some cleaning up to do."

"What cleaning up? I look--" He stopped himself, looking down at himself. He was covered in coffee and the blood from his mouth. Clint grinned as Jacob sighed. "Okay, fine, maybe I do need a bath. Just point me to your bathroom and I'll be in and out and then out of your hair. I promise."

"I doubt that." Clint chuckled but led him down the hallway to the bathroom. Hopefully, Jacob would hurry up with that bath, and then be out of here never to be heard from again. Oh, how wrong he was.

Jacob awkwardly turned on the bath, letting it run and closing the door, locking it. After a few moments, there was a cry of pain, and then everything went silent. And then, ". . . A little help?" Raising a curious eyebrow once the door was unlocked, Clint entered the bathroom to find Jacob leaned against the counter, his shirt halfway unbuttoned. He looked helplessly up at Clint. "It hurts," he said by way of explanation. "It hurts too much."

". . . It hurts to take off your clothes?" Clint frowned but sighed. "Fine. We're gonna treat you like a little kid. I'm gonna give you a bath," he teased, a grin crossing his lips as he strode forward. Carefully kicking the door closed so Lucky wouldn't wander in, the blond reached forward and swiftly unbuttoned Jacob's shirt. Jacob stood as still as possible, watching him remove his shirt.

Clint didn't feel uncomfortable removing another man's clothes. He'd done it to his sons, Nathaniel and Cooper, and his daughter, Lila, before they--no, now was not the time to think about that. Focus on the now, Clinton. He slid off Jacob's shirt before removing his belt and trousers. It was clear from Jacob's face that he felt awkward and uncomfortable, which made Clint grin again. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"Yes. Yes you are. This is so weird."

"Not my fault that you can't take off your own clothes, Big Boy."

"Big Boy?"

"Don't question it." 

"I'm questioning it."

Clint rolled his eyes, turning Jacob toward the bath as he removed his boxers. He then helped the other man into the bathtub with whimpers of pain and complaining. He then tensed--there were bloody marks on Jacob's bare back like someone had taken a knife and carved into his back by hand. And the marks were in the shape of angel wings. What did this mean? "Uhh, Jacob?"

"Jake. Just call me Jake. Can you leave now?" Jacob--Jake's tone was tense, embarrassed that another man was seeing him nude. 

"You've got marks on your back. Like wings. Did you put these here?" He brushed over the top of one of the wing marks with a hand, and Jake grunted in pain.

"Don't touch them," he spat, tensing up again. "Leave them alone."

"I'm not leaving," Clint replied, changing the subject. "If it hurts too much to remove your own clothes, then it hurts too much to clean yourself."

"Great." Jake merely leaned back, looking up at him with soft eyes. He didn't look angry or annoyed anymore, as that demeanor had shed. He looked vulnerable, just an awkward guy now. "Go ahead, then. Clean me."

Clint smirked a bit, and picked up a loofa from the other side of the bath. He dunked it in the water, and ran it along the other boy's skin, cleaning him. "So, Jake, tell me about yourself while I clean your skin."

Jake shuddered at the coldness of the water, but sighed. "Well, I'm thirty," he began in a quiet tone, "and I run a flower shop my dad used to own. My parents died about six months ago, and I was an only child, and I don't think I have any aunts or uncles or living grandparents or cousins or anything like that." Thirty years old? Not bad. Clint himself was forty-six, so a sixteen year difference. "I was raised in the city, and was home-schooled . . . anything else you'd like to know?"

"Nah, I don't need to know that much of your personal life." Clint snorted, shaking his head. "But I guess it's my turn." He let out a sigh, trying to pick out the details that were important. "Well, I had a brother named Barney. God knows where he's at now. Our dad wasn't . . . the greatest. He smacked us around. But he and Mom are gone now. We were put in different foster homes, but ended up running away to the circus. After that, I left and have the job I have now."

"And what job is that?"

". . . I can't tell you that."

"Why?"

"Because. It's confidential."

"I'm sitting naked in your bathtub and letting you clean me, and you can't tell me your job?"

"Yes. Exactly." Clint smirked again, massaging shampoo into Jake's hair. "No more questions?"

"Nope."

After another moment of silence, Jake sighed. "I'm really sorry about your dad hitting you. That must've been hard to go through."

Clint chuckled lightly, shrugging his shoulders. "It was decades ago. I'm okay now. That's what matters, right?"

"Why did you tell me all that? Especially since you're supposed to be all 'confidential' about being an Avenger and everything." Jake's words made Clint splutter in shock, and Jake laughed. "Dude, your face is all over the news. You don't bother wearing a mask. Did you think I wouldn't recognize you? I knew you were Hawkeye from the moment I saw you!"

Clint mentally cursed himself for being so stupid. Of course he would've been recognized. "Well, now you know my story. What're you gonna do, tell the press?"

"Well, obviously I can't. I'm the walking dead. You think they'd listen to me about you?"

He allowed a grin to cross his lips. "Okay, you've definitely got a point there."

"So, what now, Hawkeye?" he asked, looking up at him with a smirk.

Clint chuckled, rinsing Jake's hair under the water. "Clint," he said. "Call me Clint."


	3. WEST COAST

"You're not gonna turn me in to S.H.I.E.L.D., are you?" Jake's voice was nonchalant. He didn't care. He knew his abilities. His brand-new ones, yes, but abilities nonetheless. He could probably take down Clint and a couple more S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, no sweat. 

The two men were seated on Clint's couch, talking. Clint's dog, Lucky, was curled up on his bed, attacking a toy. Jake was leaned back, one arm extended against the top edge of the couch, his other elbow propped up against the couch and his fist rested against his face. Even his expression was insouciant. Clint tilted his head at him, chuckling lightly. "No, I won't. Mostly because they've had people come back from the dead before. Just . . . no one with no powers."

"Oh, I never said I didn't have powers." A grin tugged the edges of Jacob's lips upward in a teasing fashion. He shifted slightly, taking off his glasses and tossing them on the coffee table. "For one, I don't need those stupid things anymore." In the deep recesses of his mind, Jake knew he wasn't himself. Where had the sweet, cautious guy gone? It was like he had a snarky side comment ready for everything Clint said!

"Oh? And what other powers do you have, Sight Boy?" Jake's words made Clint laugh. Jake rolled his eyes, shaking his head. The stupid blond didn't get it. 

"You'll just have to wait and see, hotness." He shot him a wink, before picking up his glasses and crushing them in one hand. "There's your little sneak peek." When Clint shrugged and commented that he could do the same with ease, Jake scowled. The point was to shock Clint, not to get him to brag too!

"If you're trying to shock me, you'll have to try harder than that." A grin teased at Clint's lips as he leaned back against the couch. 

"Fine! I will!" Jake pushed himself off the couch in one fluid movement, marching toward the kitchen. Sputtering protests, Clint followed after him. Getting an idea, Jake reached for the knife drawer. He pulled out a kitchen knife, letting out a slow breath as he stared at the gleaming metal. Was this really a good idea?

"What the hell are you doing?" Clint's voice was one of shock, his green eyes as wide as saucers. "You're going to hurt yourself!"

"No, I won't." Jacob smiled eerily at him, before turning the knife toward himself. With one fluid motion, he stabbed himself in the chest. He almost expected a burst of pain to erupt, but he felt nothing. It was as if he hadn't stabbed himself at all. Looking down at himself, he could clearly see that there was no blood. Nothing. The knife just sat there. "Cool, huh?" Jake looked up at Clint, who was as pale as a sheet. 

"There's . . . There's a friggin' knife in your chest!" He sputtered out of pure shock, taking a step back. He looked like he was about to throw up. Jake shrugged, quite unsure of what to say. What was he supposed to say to someone who had watched you stab yourself?

"Well, I'm dead . . ." He removed the knife, examining the new incision in his shirt. His chest was unaffected, as if he'd never stabbed himself in the first place. There was no scratch, no cut, not even a scar. "So I guess I heal fast?"

Clint covered his mouth, before running to the bathroom. Jake flinched as he heard sounds of wretching. The sounds were soon drowned out, however, by another sudden noise. His head snapped up the same time Lucky looked up. Clint hadn't come out of the bathroom, meaning he hadn't heard anything. But there had definitely been a sound. It was almost like a lock being picked . . .

Lucky suddenly let out a bark, and Jake ran to the door just as it flew open. With a cry of surprise, Clint ran out of the bathroom, and Jacob slowly stepped out from behind the door that had been opened in his face. Standing there were three people: two men and one woman. They wore identical blue-black suits with grey patches on the shoulders. "Jacob Lavender, you are to come with us," the woman said plainly, and the men strode forward, grabbing Jake by both arms.

"He hasn't done anything!" Clint protested. "I am an Avenger. Let him go."

"You were the one who alerted us of his presence." The woman cocked her head at him, her eyes faintly curious. Jake looked at Clint with wide eyes. How could he? He had promised not to tell S.H.I.E.L.D. about him!

"What? No, I didn't! That wasn't me! False alarm!" Clint's tone was panicked, almost fearful. "Let go of him!"

"We can't. He's S.H.I.E.L.D. property now." They then turned, and left, dragging Jake with them. Jake screamed and thrashed, but the men had iron grips on his arms. It was no use.

Goodbye, cruel world.


End file.
